


The Wretched

by wordsliketeeth



Series: The Downward Spiral [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Biting, Blood and Injury, Creampie, Dark Imagery, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Force Bondage, Locker Room, Misogyny, Nightmares, Obsession, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Rape, Rough Sex, Sadistic Hanamiya Makoto, Situational Humiliation, Sociopath Hanamiya Makoto, Spit Kink, Stalking, Strong Female Characters, Threats of Violence, Yandere Hanamiya Makoto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18901834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "His fingers catch on a painful fissure, a cross-section of lesions that have meaning to him but remain insignificant to you. Nevertheless, you understand the weight of his words, which is a terrible shame because you would rather run blindly into the night than dissect the symbolism of his parable. But it's there, shining brightly in the back of your mind, as inescapable as the knotted length of rope binding your limbs, chafing your skin raw and promising future bruises." Hanamiya's obsession has grown and he's determined to make you see that you belong to him by whatever means necessary.





	The Wretched

A hot, sprawling sting aches across your shoulders, reminding you of the lacerations mottling the upper curve of your back. Your body shifts along with the serpent curve of your spine, the flowering bruises that have been planted along your hips, up your stomach, and to the hollow of your throat are forgotten for the shiver that's turning over to implication as you inhale a breath of stale air.

_I want to tell you something._

The sound of that voice; the harsh familiarity of it carves through you like the terrifying detail of the mapped-out ownership that mars your skin, now crusted and a dirty red. Dirty like the wounds between your legs and the two meters of skin that blankets your body.

His fingers brush over the wounds on your shoulders and you try to protest violently but you're frozen, numbed by something you can't name—so numb that you don't realize that the possessor of obsidian pools, ink-black spills, and shadows that climb your skin is tying you up. You don't feel a thing but you have an adversarial relationship with the way he's touching your body.

_When I see what I've done to you, when I look at the damage that I've caused, I have to muzzle the urge to dig my fingers into your skin until it submits to me, until it tears open and I can slip my digits into your warmth. I want to watch you bleed. I want to turn you into the river that takes the edge off my thirst. I want you to scream for me until the laws of repentance have been restored. I want to build you up just to tear you down, the filth of my actions washed in the blood of the lamb. This body...these wounds...these are **mine**. You belong to me, my little lamb. Don't ever forget that._

His fingers catch on a painful fissure, a cross-section of lesions that have meaning to him but remain insignificant to you. Nevertheless, you understand the weight of his words, which is a terrible shame because you would rather run blindly into the night than dissect the symbolism of his parable. But it's there, shining brightly in the back of your mind, as inescapable as the knotted length of rope binding your limbs, chafing your skin raw and promising future bruises. You close your eyes and try to lose yourself in the ache of cold that spreads through your body like a sheet of ice but the call for distraction isn't loud enough to mute the friction of skin and the wet slide of slick when the demon fucks into you. And it's painful, devastatingly so, but as you lie defenseless before him, spread open and bare, it dawns on you that you will never feel as exposed as when he carved himself into your skin like he was something to _wear_.

_You are mine to hurt. Mine to fuck. I will be your blood and your sweat and your tears. I will rend my way into your body and claim every inch of you, and you will let me. I will be the breath that you can't breathe when you think of me. I will be the fever that you sweat when you dream about me. I will sink my teeth into your bones and I will burn my way into your mind. I will be your strength when you are weak in my grip. I will be the venom that drips from your teeth when rage reclaims you. I will be the mistake you make when you beg for mercy. I will be your soul when you reach for faith and I will be your sin when your god denies your prayer. I am your religion. I am your conviction. Tell me, ____. Tell me again..._

His fingers dig into your flesh, deeper than physically possible without the familiar sear of pain, without the sharp edge of his blade. Blood slithers down your body in glistening ribbons, a nest of ophidian bodies moving toward the spread of your thighs, slick with sweat and something pearly white that turns to rose with the red of your lifeblood. There's blood on his hands and he's no sooner painting your body with sticky-slick biology than he's drawing from your lips a cry of derision. He forces apart your thighs and holds you close as he writhes against your body, his hips grinding out the quiver that trembles beneath your skin.

_Tell me that you ache for this. Tell me that you want me. Tell me that you would do anything to please me. Tell me that you can't live without me. Let me make you whole. Feel me. Breathe me. Taste me. Give me the retribution I deserve. Give me another reason to destroy you. Pull the tricks out of my sleeve. Let my darkness be the only thing you see. Slay your hope and let it die. I want you filthy and obscene. I want you coated in blood, inside and out, my name hollowing out your chest and my hands around the smooth curve of your throat, crushing the pulse that beats wildly beneath my fingers. Tell me, ____. Tell me that you love me._

You choke on a breath, a fine quiver of oxygen that lodges itself in your throat in the shape of fear. You shiver against the bedsheets, drenched with sweat and permanently wrinkled from the violent twist of your fingers. You cough and the sound leaves your mouth in a ragged moan. You open your eyes and sit bolt upright, a scream of protest catching on the frame of your lips as every muscle in your body objects the movement. You place a hand over the rapid thrum of your heart as if the touch can pacify its panicked rhythm, surprised to find your skin cold considering the slick of sweat on your skin.

You can still hear the timbre of his voice, the velvety smooth elocution of each word that he burned into your mind when he manipulated the signals that controlled your brain. You rub at your eyes, the pain drawn around them visible in the dark circles imprinted on your skin. You wonder if you're dreaming—wishes it actually—but it's apparent in your surroundings that you aren't so lucky. You exhale slowly and begin to work out the ache in your muscles. It makes for a small diversion but you can still feel the undertow of his words sucking you down into the depths of a whirlpool with no exit point.

_Tell me that you love me. Tell me that you'll see me tonight. I will bring your dreams to life._

* * *

Long days of grueling basketball practice turn to reward as you take a shot in the face of fear and close a long-awaited match with a mere two-point lead. You can taste victory on your tongue and it's easy to hear success in those rooting for your team; even more so from the cries of your teammates, their voices ripped threadbare from adrenaline-spun triumph but all you can _feel_ is bone-deep exhaustion. You smile and cheer whilst throwing a fist in the air in lieu of a victory cry as your team drowns you in hugs and beats out a rhythm of war-drums against the glossy gym floor.

You allow them their well-deserved celebration, as proud of your team as they feel. You return their hugs and their smiles and let your own laughter filter through their delighted dissonance, but each hug feels forced, each smile feels tight, and the peal of your laughter doesn't sound like your own. You clench your teeth and follow the line of pain that lances through your jaw. It isn't an ideal form of distraction but you need something because you refuse to let him lay claim to your happiness: your _family_.

It doesn't take long for the initial excitement to break and ebb into the flow of fundamental demand. The whole team moves in a tandem routine as fatigue spreads through their limbs and the warmth of enthusiasm slips into calm. You watch them from a timeworn bench, the lights above you cold and sterile against the chipped tiles spanning from wall to wall. You listen to the sounds of their movements: the creak of locker doors and the shuffle of clothing, the intermittent scuff of a sneaker and the occasional comment that quietly stirs the overheated air. You tip your head back and stare at the ceiling, blinded by the light as you focus on the steady drip of water meeting the slick tiles just around the corner.

“Aren't you going to shower?” The voice is all too familiar but it sounds foreign to your ears. You smile and offer a nod in polite acknowledgment. “I'm just taking it easy for a minute. You girls go on ahead. I'll be fine.” You widen your smile to override the look of apprehension outlining the other girl's face. “I mean it. You worked hard today so rest well.”

You don't know how you look to those on the outside but you're still top of your class and your dedication to basketball hasn't wavered so you pray that your facade is passable at the very least. Though, you know that there's tension clinging to the air and that the rest of the team is starting to feel it. Notwithstanding your firm determination to throw yourself into school and practice, you know that you can't hide the cold resolve behind your gaze and the dull heaviness of lethargy settling into the lines of your face.

You say goodbye to each teammate, each friend, each _sister_ as they filter out of the locker-room and think that you're lucky to have the fortune of a family so near, their support readily available should you need it. And maybe you do. You know that you could tell them what happened, know that they would believe you where others might not, but you won't. You won't put them at risk, won't jeopardize the strength that you've put into the framework and foundation of your team.

You feel lightheaded, like the darkness has stolen your sight, like your body is cross-wired and you can't breathe during the time it takes to lift yourself up off of the bench. Your hands ache when you curl your fingers around the hem of your jersey and your arms shake as you draw the material up and over your head. The soft curse that slips past your lips is bright on your tongue before it dissolves into a hiss of sound against the backdrop of the room. You hear the door of the locker-room door come open and quickly react to hide the bruises painting your skin like an unfinished canvas. You clutch your jersey close to your chest and focus on composing yourself before speaking. “Did you forget something?” you manage, tone far steadier than you feel.

“I seldom forget things that are important to me.”

You fall back against the wall as shock threads through you and replaces the stitches on your mind with dread that sets off alarm bells loud enough to hurt your ears. You blink once and bring the image of Hanamiya standing within mere feet of you into clarity. You observe the look of satisfaction carved into his features, the dig of his mouth curving into a sadistic smile, the alacrity of future events gleaming behind the dark of his eyes. The truth of what he's come for is laid out before you, as clear-cut and systematic as he presents himself. You know because you've seen it before—the last time he paid you a visit, no less, in the form of the possession he's poured over you. But it's not the fear that he's put in you that you feel, it's hatred and rage, as thick as the ash that fights to spill out of your throat, as bright as the flames you previously left behind. It's an amalgamation of loathing and disgust, hotter than the way his voice is sliding like a touch down the length of your spine.

Hanamiya looks like he wants to say something but you're on him faster than you're physically capable, in truth, encouraged by the adrenaline and the vengeance you're drunk on. Your fists connect with soft tissue, nails catching at his skin like the claws that he's raked across your heart. Then come the knees, the elbows, the battle cry that slips into a rage-bred snarl as Hanamiya's shock dissolves into motion and he begins to fight back. His fingers bite into your hips, rough and purposeful and meant to _hurt_. You struggle in his grip, limbs twisting like that of captured prey and eyes darkening with deadly intent as you grapple for the upper-hand.

Hanamiya laughs when he pushes you hard against the wall, his knee wedged between your thighs. “I have to admit, I didn't expect you to have this much fight left in you.” He's touching on breathlessness but his control doesn't waver as yours begins to slip. You're strong and there's no denying that you know how to fight, but you're worn out from the match and the toxic rush of emotions that bare you in patterns of chaos. It's then that you realize Hanamiya has the advantage of momentum and you can't match his unparalleled strength. It's more than you're willing to accept, and you can't bring yourself to bear it, not even when Hanamiya claims your control as his own.

You don't know what's binding your wrists together, can't be bothered to look while your skin tingles with self-awareness. Then Hanamiya's forcing you down to the cold resistance of the floor, down to the ache spreading through your knees. You feel your body turn hot as he begins to tear away your clothes, his intention glaringly obvious. A wave of something unnamed breaks into blood-lust and you struggle fiercely against his touch with the last of your energy. You feel like a dying star but you won't yield until you've fought with everything you have left to give. You kick and bite and curse until your limbs grow clumsy and all you can do is heave beneath Hanamiya's imposing shadow, the dark of it making you vulnerable and leaving you exposed.

“Why?” you ask, injecting the word so full of venom you spit the question in Hanamiya's face. You're faltering, your protests growing weak in a way that states you can't keep up with him. Your eyes flicker with something unlike the animosity that was there only seconds ago but you don't witness it, don't see the white-laced panic that creases your brow and settles in the corner of your mouth. You can only feel the motion in your chest—the frantic pulse of your heart—as the outcome presents itself in explicit clarity. The defeat is a crushing weight that settles over you, pinning your body to the floor with the phantom adiposity of exhaustion.

Hanamiya doesn't speak until he's finished stripping you of what little cover you have left. His smile is sharp, like a knife meant to carve through bone. It slides into you, twisting hot and acute...testing. “I want you,” is his initial response, as knife-edged as the dig of his fingers and the shape of his mouth. “I _need_ you,” he says with mocking sweetness.

“You can't have me,” you bite, thrashing against the cold tiles.

“Make no mistake,” Hanamiya begins, dropping into a crouch while keeping the hand on your wrists crushingly tight, “I've never been afraid to take what I want. And it's funny because when it comes to you, for some reason I have yet to understand, I want everything.”

“I won't ever submit to you,” you argue, voice straining raw in the dark of your throat.

“No. Maybe you won't.” Hanamiya traces a line to the shift of breathing in your throat, his thumb pressing in against the hollow as your diaphragm spasms and contracts in an effort to steady your breathing. “But I don't need you to. I can master you without your consent. I can control you without your concession. And the greatest part of all of this is that I get what I want while you're forced to accept whatever it is I offer you.” His fingers open to span the circumference of your throat, his thumb digging in against your pulse when you manage to swallow what little saliva is left on your tongue.

“It'll get boring,” you say, fighting to keep your eyes trained on Hanamiya's own merciless stare. “ _I'll_ get boring and eventually you'll grow tired of me.” The air in your lungs suddenly stalls as Hanamiya's hand tenses, the chill of his fingers unyielding as he closes off your trachea.

“You can only hope,” Hanamiya rasps. “Though, I'm sure that I'll have broken you by that point. But hey, one can never know, right? Maybe you'll surprise me.” His laughter rings cold and hollow like the pained shout that tears past your lips when he graces you with a breath. He's forcing your hips up for access, his cock hard and leaking precome, a salacious image begging for the heat your body has to offer.

And he takes it, forcing his way in as you fight the unpleasant roil of your body's confusion into reticence. You know that submission would be easier; that compliance would bring a cursory end to Hanamiya's maltreatment, but no matter what silhouette your intuition forms, you can't shape obedience. So you struggle when you can, and when the physical objection isn't enough, you hurl insults at him.

But it's not enough, it's not even _close_ because Hanamiya is unshakable and with each invective taunt he thrusts into you deeper, over and over again. You try every dirty trick you know but Hanamiya is always one step ahead.

“Come on, baby,” Hanamiya says, the epithet spreading into the warm glow of a moan in his chest. It sounds like praise but you know all too well that it's an act of disparagement. “Just resign yourself to this. You belong to me. I _own_ you. Now give me a little something to work with. I know you want this.”

You huff a dry laugh and turn your head to the side to avoid Hanamiya's penetrative gaze. “To think that the way you had to force yourself on me would have been enough to help you understand that I don't want this...” You curl your fingers and press your nails in against the palms of your bound hands. “How stupid of me to assume that you'd catch on.”

“You just don't give up, do you?” Hanamiya breathes, and it's his turn to laugh. “I guess I'll have to try a bit harder.” He rocks his hips forward and drops his weight to slam his palms against the cold floor. His skin meets the chipped tile with an audible smack and you can't keep your body from flinching with unintentional imperative as he cages you between his arms. “I'll cut you down. I know you're weak.” His breath ghosts your face, hot when he speaks and hotter still when he bites your lips raw. “I will break you, ____. If it means dedicating more time to you, I'll do so.”

You open your mouth to frame the protest building at the forefront of your mind but Hanamiya shoves his fingers into your mouth to silence you, his salt-warm digits stroking your tongue as if to soothe your words into submission. “What good does speaking do? I'm already deliciously deep inside of you and there's nothing you can say to change my mind.”

You distract yourself with the assumption that Hanamiya has a hand fetish as he undulates his hips, each thrust more precise than the last. It does little in the way of drawing your attention away from his ministrations but it's all you can think to do.

“You're learning,” Hanamiya intones. He slips his fingers free of your mouth and trails a line of saliva across your cheek. “Although, it's a bit disappointing that _this_ is the knowledge you decided to take with you. I was hoping you'd bite like last time.”

“My apologies,” you deadpan. You shiver against the floor and the shape of your spine curves and twists when Hanamiya shoves you hard against the chill. The shock against your skin steals your breath away as the cold spills through your veins like a venomous asp, flexing your muscles into tension as your body goes taut with two parts pain and one part pleasure.

“Fuck,” Hanamiya growls, snapping his hips forward in a misguided thrust. “Mistakes like that must _kill_ you. Just the very thought of giving into me, this pretty little cunt surrendering to my cock. That must hurt so bad.” Hanamiya digs wounds into the space above your sternum, his nails leaving indentations as he drags his fingers down between your ribs. “I should rip you open and fuck you from the inside out, collapse everything just so I can learn the way you taste beneath your skin.” Hanamiya's breathing goes ragged for a brief moment and you pray that he's approaching the precipice of his orgasm. “I could even use the wet heat of your blood to my advantage. Imagine my hands slippery with it, playing over your clit until you fall apart at my hands. I could destroy you, ____.”

“You're sick, Hanamiya. You need help,” you manage, but only just. Your voice is weak and your throat is raw from too much emotion but your speech is unwavering which, to you, matters the most.

“Please, save me then. Show me your fear so I can feel alive. Cry for me so I know that you're mine. Beg me to stop so I can pick up the cross you bear and walk a mile to my retribution.” Hanamiya laughs and the warmth of it spills across your cheeks, the bitterness of chocolate on his breath. “You can try, baby. Try to help me, but this soul doesn't need saving.”

“You're insane!” you cry as you dig your heels into the unyielding tile at your feet for some semblance of leverage that doesn't come. “You're not some kind of deity, you're a monster.”

Hanamiya smiles sweetly and it turns the heat in your stomach to sour. Then he's barking laughter, the dark of his eyes blowing wide as pleasure swamps his veins. “I'm only as insane as you make me out to be.”

You have no time to argue his statement because he's winding his fingers through your hair and yanking your head back to meet the solidity of the floor. The ache that flares up your scalp is breathtaking and the strain building in the angle of your neck makes the chemicals in your bloodstream rush to the nociceptors in your brain. Hanamiya's lips curve into a dangerous slant as he forces your mouth open with bruising force, and before you can register what he's planning, he's spitting past your parted lips and into your aperture. “I've got demons of my own that should run, baby. Me being crazy is the last thing you should worry your pretty little head about.”

“What I'm worried about is how long you're going to keep fucking me,” you grit out, ignoring the saliva that leaks past the corner of your mouth and down your cheek. “I have things to do.”

“There's that familiar spark,” Hanamiya taunts. “But you're lacking your usual bite. Is it that you've grown tired?” The hand in your hair pulls tighter and you aren't entirely convinced he's not tearing the strands right out of your head. “You dance, baby, but you don't _move_. I can only play this one-sided game for so long.”

You gasp as a hand slides past the low of your abdomen, Hanamiya's touch like the sharp point of an icicle. You steal half a breath before he slides his fingers over your clit and applies the exact point of pressure that will be your undoing. You sink your teeth into the swollen red of your bottom lip to silence the scream that seizes you but despite what you want to believe, Hanamiya is far from stupid and it doesn't take long for his manipulation to split you open into blinding pleasure.

“That's my girl,” he praises, his voice gone raw with a current of satisfaction that breeds his own release. His body tenses as yours shakes and no sooner than he slams your head against the floor is he spilling capitulation inside of your body. His mouth sags open and his shoulders dip forward as he slowly rocks through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

“I'll never be your girl,” you say, biting back the lightning that grounds out somewhere between your knees. Your words are cruel and harsh and just where you want them to be. It isn't much in light of what's just taken place but it's better than being left entirely empty-handed.

“Give it time,” Hanamiya says, drawing back and away from your body. He removes his fingers from your sex and holds his hand up to the light, slick catching on his pale digits. “You never disappoint.” He smooths moisture into his lips as his mouth cracks open into a lazy smile. “Maybe next time you'll make me believe that you don't want it.”

Your scalp cries relief when he releases the hair he's knotted into his fist but the modicum of comfort is gone as soon as it comes because Hanamiya's smearing the slick betrayal of your body across your lips. “Maybe next time you'll remember exactly what I'm capable of doing to you.”

You aim a kick at Hanamiya's knee but even with the languid shift of his muscles, he dodges the attack with ease. “And here I thought you were making progress,” Hanamiya says, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to express his mock disappointment. He tugs his pants up over the angle of his narrow hips and fastens them into place with graceful fingers that seem ill-equipped considering who they're attached to. “I think it might do you good to remember that photo I took of you,” Hanamiya says, running his palms over the wrinkles that have formed along the front of his shirt.

You close your eyes and pray for him to leave because you've lost any chance of finding a useful vantage point from your position. You hear the shift of clothing, the quiet slide of boots against the tile floor, and when you open your eyes, Hanamiya is crouched in the space next to your knees. He presses a calloused hand to your thigh and uses the soft weave of your basketball jersey to wipe away the mess he's left at the apex of your trembling legs. He tosses the soiled fabric onto your chest and pulls a knife out of his back pocket. Fear strikes hot in your chest as pain pulses through the place where your head connected with the floor. You blink once and when the room spins back into clarity, Hanamiya is dropping the weight of the weapon onto the material bunched across your breasts as he pulls himself into standing. “Consider it a gift. You're going to need something to get your hands out of that mess.” He nods in the direction of your bound wrists before turning toward the direction of the exit.

“Oh, one more thing, ____. The next time you try to pull a stupid stunt like that, I'll rub your face in my come before I make you lick it up off the floor. And if that doesn't get through to you, I'll make sure that playing basketball becomes a thing of your past—and that would just _break_ my heart.”

You exhale a bated breath when the locker-room door closes with an audible click and the only sound in the otherwise silence of the room is the ever-present drop of water from the showers. You lie on the floor for a long moment, staring back into the bright of the lights above you. You wonder how long it's been since the others have left and remind yourself that you need to force circulation back into your hands, now swollen and numb with cold—but nothing is as chilling as the cruel realization that Hanamiya plans to do this again.

The air in the room is still and you can feel nothing against your skin but the memory of Hanamiya's presence. His lips, his hands, his _touch_ , his taste, the stolen material he fashioned into makeshift restraints, the smell of his skin, the slick cooling on your thighs—it's all there, like a phantom leaving behind only subtle cues in the wake of its presence.

It's overwhelming.

However, if you're to take anything away from the heinous abuse that Hanamiya's forced upon you, it's to persevere, to never give in to his demands because he craves the damage he believes will eventually follow and you will _never_ break for him.

Even if that means fighting when your body wants to sing a song that no note can hold—so you pick yourself up and polish your bruises while dusting away the pain because it's the only form of resurgence you know.

But you never that said that you weren't willing to relearn what it means to be victorious, and someday, the blood that spills into the gutters and stains the morning sun won't be your own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
